


19 years forward

by another_maggies, Nightmary



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crack, Harry Potter Next Generation, Multi, Next Generation, and we didn't like the cursed child a lot, basically a comedic take on what could have been, references to many things, sooo, that's that, things are slightly different
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-08-08 07:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7749148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/another_maggies/pseuds/another_maggies, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightmary/pseuds/Nightmary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't easy to be a Potter's son. Or a Krum's daughter. Or a Malfoy heir.<br/>How will the children of the great generation deal? What are our old heroes doing?<br/>Just read and see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The night is dark and full of terrors. One of them is a boy of sixteen years. His hair is dark and his eyes are shining unearthly in the dim light of a black candle.  
  
The wind is howling madly outside. It mixes in with the eery fluttering of worn-out cards as the boy deals the deck.  
  
The silent solemn boy is not alone. There's another boy, sitting across him, but the candle only serves to illuminate one of their faces. The 16-year-old got lucky, this time.  
  
He flips the card, lips pressed together in anticipation. His moves get slower and slower as he proceeds to turn the last card...

 

"Do we really have to wait until midnight?" The younger boy says from his place in the dark.  
  
The elder boy shakes his head, disappointment clear on his young face. He doesn't deem this question worthy of an answer and keeps his silence.  
  
The younger boy sighs, in his place in the dark. If the floorboards weren't so creaky he would just leave.  
  
The door opens. "What are you guys doing?"  
  
"Shhh, silence! Girls are a bad influence on the harmony of the divination powers of  the mystical cards!"  
  
The girl goes. She does not seem very disappointed. The younger boy wishes she could have stayed. Or he might have left with her.   
  
The clock strikes midnight, finally.  
  
The elder boy flips the last card, looks up. "You're going to die", he announces, gravely.  
  
 What a huge surprise.  
  
"Can I leave now?" The younger boy poses it as a question, although he's already moving.  
  
"Pathetic Peasant. You shan't say I did not warn you, when the dark shadows of doom looming over you swallow your lowly soul later,"  
  
"Whatever I guess."

  
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4 a.m. Only five more hours. Five more hours with his children and then there would be only the silence of his loneliness.  
  
Silence of footsteps that echoed across a hall that is not his. Silence of laughter resonating from walls that are not his. Silence of tears dried with napkins that are not his.  
  
Silence. Half a year. Silence. Almost an eternity.

  


Finally.  
Peace. Greater than the one made in 1998, if he might say so himself. He was there after all.  
  
Sadly, that makes it all even worse. He was there when 'peace' was made, but where did that get him? He looks around. Turns his head.  
  
Left. His wife. Well, at least she was pretty in the wedding pictures. Before the children. Best not dwell on those three.  
  
Right. A picture. Him, his wife and... the three children. Yes. Three. Almost Weasley standard.  
  
He turns back left. He settles for looking at the ceiling. There is a hole. His daughter can take the credit for this problem. It's not that she can't use her wand, there's no squib among their ranks (and If there was he would never have kept her), she just thought he would appreciate a hole through which they could talk. Always.  
  
Well. Quite frankly: He would appreciate If she was out of sight, always. He might have been better off with a squib-daugther on second thought.  
  
Six more years, he tells himself, Six more years until they're all gone. His daugther will be the last to leave.  
  
He would have preferred his sons.  
  
Oh well, he would have preferred one son. One good, nice, well - not that nice, Slytherin-nice son. Blonde hair, blue eyes. That's what he would have preferred.  
But nobody asked him and now he's stuck with those three.  
  
Yes, five hours until silence, six years until freedom. He is counting the days. Schooltime non-included. Six years and he will be alone again.  
  
He blinks in the dark, finishing the thought. Somehow he feels like he forgot something, or someone... Never mind.

  


Again he resumes to ponder on his life. Many wouldn't believe that he's got any problems. He's got a house, a name (that somehow is still partially respectable), a pure-blooded heir and two substitutes - what else could he wish for? Nothing.  
  
But his problem is not what he could wish for. His problem is that he's too nice.  
  
He's too nice to his kids, whom he should have taught the right behaviour as soon as they began to walk and talk. He's too nice to his wife (ah, yes, that's the something he forgot) whom he gave children to just because she "felt so lonely". He's too nice to his elf, involuntarily, though, because of that stupid Granger witch, who brought forth 'elf rights', so that might not count. He's too nice to the gardener, when he trims the bushes in the wrong way. He's too nice to his cook, when the tea is served too hot or too cold.  
  
And his children have picked up on this behaviour of his. Of all they could have chosen to learn from him they chose being nice. Being too nice.

  


 He has a vision of his family, his old, great family doomed. If his children could just have inherited more than his looks and being too nice.  
  
He sighs. It's hopeless. This dream of his is as old as time. Well. As old as his eldest son.  
  
Ten minutes after 4 a.m.  Another four hours and fifty minutes to go.

  
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"GOOOOOOOOOD MOOOOOOOORNINNNNNNGGGGG!"  
  
Rosé rubs  at her eyes. "What are you stretching the g for? It's not even a sonorant consonant."  
  
"Know it all!"  
  
"And proud of it."

  


Downstairs, her father is making pancakes. No, scratch that. Trying to make pancakes.  
  
She gets a look at her plate. Scratch that. Failing to make pancakes. She pushes it over the table.  
  
It wasn't on her brain nourishing diet anyway. So that's that. And her brother will surely gulf it all up. Idiot.   
  
How can he actually be her brother? He inherited all of his fathers traits, clearly. One of them is dumbness itself. On this matter, how can that slow-witted guy be her father? Sometimes she doubts her mother's genius. At least in the regard of choosing a partner.  
  
"I'm so excited", he declares as he enters. Hugo grabs for the mustard syrup ("I invented it myself!" - "Who would have guessed.") and drowns the burned picture of misery in it.  
  
Pathetic. How can he be excited in his fifth year. It's not like Hazel Wood will accept his date proposal this year. Not If she hasn't lost her sight. And hearing. His voice is remarkable. In a bad way. Sometimes she hears him singing under the shower. He has great potential as a future torturer of the Ministery. Which there are none. Right. As if she would be stupid enough to belief in the nice and friendly promotion of the "all good, all equal, all so absolutly undoubtly holy" Minstery.  
  
"Me too", she fakes. It will make her parents not pay any attention to her.  
  
"What do you want for breakfast... Whiskee?"  
  
"Ew, no, dad, it's not even 9 in the morning." Naming your kids after alcohol brands: one thing. Giving them liquor for breakfast: whole different story.  
  
"Oh, Hugo. You know we don't drink before 12. I was talking to Whiskee." Once more Rosé wonders what her dad refers to by the omnious "12" - minutes, hours, age?  
  
Her mother enters the kitchen, clad in her ministery outfit. Scratch that. Her everyday round the clock outfit. "Sorry I can't come to King's Cross with you", she says. As If they expected anything else.  
Well. Hugo seems scandalised.  
  
"But mum! It's my FIFTH year!"  
  
She blinks once. "That's exactly my point. You and your dad should be all right on your own. Bye."  
  
Rosé watches her go. Not that she has to. She knows very well what her mother looks like when she's leaving. After all they've been bottle babies.  
  
"Ooops, I think I burned that one", her father says. That's not a surprise. Him realizing, however is. "I think it's still edible." Oh, there we go. For a moment she thought somebody had stolen his identity. Not that it would be that great of a loss. Frankly she watched those Muggle alien-movies more than once thinking it might be nice to make some of them kidnap her father and her brother. Or at least herself, if they do not want them either.  
  
Her father splashes another something into the pan. He ignores the burned remnants and starts creating another "still edible". He's a houseman, who can't cook. Someday he might poison himself and all those idiotic enough to eat what he makes/perpetrates. Again, no loss.  
  
"Pancake, pwease", demands Whiskee, who at the tender age of 10 still lacks enough grown up teeth to lisp. Their father gives the child the burned one with a lot of whipped cream. If that's what Rosé got all year round as only noutrition her teeth wouldn't want to grow, either. But she has always been smart enough to eat out, put extra items on the shopping list. She's aspired to be the Matilda of the wizarding world. Stupid, neglectable father, stupid elder brother, bright younger daughter. Whiskee doesn't quite fit in that equation, but then Whiskee doesn't fit in anywhere.  
  
"Rosie pie", her father says. Her blood freezes at the childhood nickname (not reinforced by her. ever). "You haven't eaten anything."  
  
"I'm not hungry anymore", she says, most diplomatically. "But hey, dad. Is that clock broken?" It shows 8:46.  
  
"Oh holy freaking French fries", Ron says. He always curses with food words.  Maybe he actually does know that he is an awful cook... She doubts it. He's not very self reflected. "We're late!"  
  
Rosé widens her eyes as If this is a big surprise to her. As If she didn't start reading the clock at 14 months old. As If she'd ever lose track of time. "Oh! Really?"  
  
"I- I think-" Her father runs his hand through his hair, ever so lost without her mother.  
  
"We should go", she suggests, innocently.  
  
"Ah yes." He puts his hands on his hips. "Kids. I'm sorry, but you can't finish your pancakes. We have to go." How most unfortunate.  
"Shame. Shame."  
  
"Yeah, it really is."

  
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Harry is having a good day. He woke up seeing his lovely wife, ordinary, average Hannah Abbott (he actually wanted to take on her name when they married...). He kissed her on her forehead, they do not have to kiss on the mouth in his opinion, and left the bed to go downstairs. He begins making breakfast. He proudly admits to himself that, yes, he is good at this. No thanks to the Dursleys, of course not, but since the end of the war, his marriage, the children, he adopted an optimistic view on his life and on the world. And on the usage of certain herbs that Luna once gave him as a present. The last thing is not important. And it does not help him not having a breakdown, when his good day comes to a sudden end.  
  
"Father.", his daughter says sweetly, venomly. He is not sad because his daugther hates him.  
  
He is sad, because he is hollow inside. Do not be sad. There is a fluffy, fluffy world around me and all the life is great... (yes, that is another thing he can  thank Luna for, the "Happy, Happy, Happy-Sing-along-Sing-Song". Actually the text stems from the picture book sweet little Lily had as a small child. She destroyed it. But he will never forget.)  
  
Surpressing his feelings really helped to come back from the post-war hole of depression. He had to replace all the old, bad memories with good ones. Hence, naming his children after people, who have died, which, If you stretch the term a bit, is almost resurrection. So they're not dead at all. No, no, not dead at all. In this world, no one has to die. Everyone is happy. Wizards and Muggles live in peace and harmony. There is no opression, no depression... Animals are friends and-  
  
"Father.", greets his son.  
  
The eldest one. He is so proud of him. His eyes are big and dark, he wears the eyeliner of his mother. He says he does not use the eyeliner. The black smears around his eyes are natural.  He says his body adepts to the seer within. So his eyes look big. He also wears a strange monocle and holds a desk of cards. Still proud of him.  
  
"Father, I know you shall ne'er listen to what I ought to say but I cannot withold my wisdom obtained through the cards. It is your destiny..." His son stops speaking. "Are those pancakes?"  
  
Harry nods happily. His son's face gets dark. "Oh no.... oh nonono... I... the symbols.... the propheted..."  
  
Thus his eldest seems to decide to leave the room. Because he wants to sleep a little bit more. Not because he might be slightly disturbed and thinks he is the ultimate seer. None of Harry's children are disturbed. None is anything but perfect. Yes. As is his whole life.

  


"Oh shuddap, James." This is the voice of his younger son, cursing. He does that a lot. Puberty is hard on Harry's world view, but he holds on to it anyway. On days like these, however, he needs... some kind of encouragement, one could say. James ignores him and leaves.  
  
"Albus, would you be a dear and bring me my herbal soother?"  
  
Said young man rolls his eyes in a very dramatic fashion. "Why don't you get them yourself? You can use magic."  
  
Harry watches him. Sees the dark circles under his son's eyes. Oh no. Has he been gaming again? From his time in the muggle world Harry knows of the dangers that devices like the one Arthur insisted on giving Albus for a gift carry.  
He's seen it with Dudley. First stage: losing wit and gaining weight. Second stage: slacking off and slowing down. Third stage: working at an office. He cannot possibly let that happen.  
Oh. Well. If Albus wants to work in an office he might let it happen. Because his children should be happy. They should have the perfect picturebook ordinary childhood. Harry's childhood was all right. He does not remember the closet under the stairs. He does. But it was a nice closet. Really. Harry feels something inside him raise its ugly head of non-happiness. ...a fluffy, fluffy world around me....  
  
He turns to his sweet, sweet daughter. Named after flowers. Looks like his mother. IS his mother... "So what do you think Lily, how do you feel about your first day? Do you have plans already? I know you havn't been seeing your lovely friends, you must have missed them."  
  
"Henchmen and comrades."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"They are my henchmen and comrades."  
  
"Ah... right.", He guess she is at that age. Playing some sort of game. She's adorable. He's glad that he has both sons and a daughter. Clearly, having just one gender must be missing out.  
  
"Children!" It's his wife. Hannah. She's beautiful. He loves her. "We should really get going. We still need to pick up the Weasleys."  
  
"Do we have to? Their mother is muggle born", Lily says, eyes focused on a spot somewhere before her. Harry follows her gaze and stares into nothing... nothing, but beautiful flowery yards with butterflies and birds and bees...  
  
"Both of your grandmothers are, too. Why would you have any problem..."  
  
"Shush, dear. She does not. Obviously. She's surely simply embarrassed "  
  
"It's much less of a problem than a lifestyle choice", Lily mutters beneath her breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear. No. Ignore. Because clearly it was just the wind. She cannot have said such a thing. She would never. Obviously.  
  
"May that be as it may be, we have a train to catch", Hannah continues. Harry adores her strength,  
  
"We shan't catch the train yonderday", James declares. "Neither never."  
  
"Because we are doomed, right? Fucking stupid psy..."  
  
"Al, my dear... where are your manners."  
  
"Left them with James' wits. Think they got lost."  
  
Harry breathes through his nose. Deeply. Everything is well. Everything is beautiful.

  
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There is a crowd in front of the station.  A girl within the crowd tries to catch her breath escaping men, women, boys, girls, freaking dogs and cats, whatsoever. "It is Krum!" "Victor!" "How did you catch that last..." "Can I take a picture with you?" "Krum, Sir, have you..."  
  
Why again is it that she's gone with her father today? She looks back and sees a flash of red. Better ignore it. Better look the other way and see... her brothers. Who are cloned. For sure. Their parents are unable to remember their names. But here's the thing. Despite all, she liks them. And she can distinguish them. Her Mother squeals whenever Natasha is able to rightly name Ivan or Sergej. She thinks it is a gift. Because appearently everything that Natasha does or is might just be a miracle. Why, why, can her parents not be normal? And why is it that only one of her brothers is not a criminal...   
  
Natasha throws back her hair, as much as it is possible with the (ugly, scratchy, made of a dead animal) beautiful furhat her mother gave her for winter, and lets her eyes wander across the platform.

 

So that's King's Cross. Her mother has been going on and on about it for ages. How someday, Nathasha will go there. And Nathasha will become head of the Quidditch team. And prefect. And Nathasha will be sorted into Gryffindor. And Nathasha will meet all of her cousins. And the Potters. And did you know, dear, that I once was an item with Harry Potter himself?  
  
Nathasha wonders whether her mother sees her father as a down- or upgrade.  
  
"You have to go soon, darling", her mother says. She just pops out of nowhere sometimes. Comes in handy when you're a criminal. No. Not criminal. More like a modern Robin Hood. Modern in the way that you only help yourself. Also, If it's a sickness, If you're a cleptomaniac, you cannot help it. So there's no point in fighting it. You just have to let it go.  
  
"I know, mum, you told me." A lot of times.  
  
"Do you have all your things? You know we're short on owls right now, so we won't be able to send anything." They're all in bird prison.  
  
"Yes, mum. I've got everything." Six robes, eleven ties (more or less damaged, no really they are all totally new, but there is a trend to sell ties that are damaged and her mum told her to always keep up with the style community), a lot of shoes and blouses, underwear in an amount she could throw it away after using it once and get by until Christmas and five brooms so she can join the Quidditch team without any limitations. Also, a cat. There's no classier pet to have. (Also, her owl never returned from the flight her brother Vladimir borrowed it for).  
Natasha did never metion that she actually prefers toads. She would get one, of course, but her mother might have a short break down. Those are not pretty and should be avoided. Also Natasha is used to think before she says anything.  
There was that one time, when she said the jewlery of one of the Minstery ladies was nice and suddenly her brother, Sergej, was in prison. Again. For threatening and theft. Duh. She does love her brothers, she does, but sometimes...  
She tries not to think about some possible results that a word of her might have. Actually, it is scary how easy it is for her family to ignore law and order sometimes. Well not ignore. Let's say forget. Also they do have at least different modus operandi (and she knows this word because she has been to the Ministery and to the court a lot, she knows more Aurors than some of those Auror-fan-children).  
  
"Attention please! Attention! The train will leave in five minutes!" The man's voice cuts through the air like a sword. And Natasha knows this, because her brother Vladimir once- but that's a boring story so best not dwell on it.  
  
Her mother blows soundly into her tissue. "OH, Nashenka, my dear Nashenka." She pulls her into a breath-taking, breast-to-face-touching hug. Somewhere behind them her father might feel just like that. Being crowded. "OH, how will I only...", her mothers continues, stops and suddenly... She's away. That happens sometimes. Usually around people who might know... well. Natasha is relieved. She won't die by hug-suffocation. Also her mother and her brothers won't either commit Suicide, fratercide, matercide, homicide or cover in depression. And yes, there is still the possibility of patercide  
  
But isn't it always? Life is ever so exciting.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wheels on the bus go round and round... except they're on the train. And what do magical trains need wheels for anyway? Like? Can't they just fly to school?

The silence in their cabin is almost as thick as the real fur coat her mother made her take with her "for winter".  
  
"Sooo..." She exhales. She just has to say something. The atmosphere is too depressing. The thought of hours of this might just convince her to go back to her family instead of becoming a student at Hogwarts. She doesn't want to have a bad start already.  
  
"You're all new?" She feels stupid as soon as the question leaves her mouth. Great. That's great. She has to sound really boring. What if they think she is weird? What If they think anything of her? They're not supposed to know her before she knows herself...  
  
The small platinum blonde girl on the opposite seat clicks her tongue. "You're Natasha Krum, right?"  
  
Natasha blinks her eyes, taken aback. Her father is famous. Doesn't mean she is.  
  
"Of course I'm right." The girl pulls a small notebook and a feather out of the pocket that graces her oversized coat. Everything looks oversized on her. She's the definition of tiny, really. Natasha wonders whether she could be one of her cousins. They always wear hand me downs. Or so she's heard. "So. How does the daughter of Krum the Kite feel about her first day at Hogwarts?" Tiny pushes her glasses back on the bridge of her nose, expectantly.  
  
  
"I... er..."  
  
  
"Nevermind her", the boy to her left says. She didn't even realise there was a boy in their cabin until now. "Boot, Camp."  
  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
  
"Boot, Camp." He offers her his hand.  
  
  
"I don't think going to Hogwarts feels like going to a boot camp", she says, uncertainly. Out of the corner of her eye she sees the small girl taking notes. No. The small girl's feather taking notes.  
  
  
The boy laughs. Releasing the tension. Or trying to. Natasha is still quite tense. Back in Russia (Ukraine? Bulgaria? Who knows. Who cares.) she was only allowed contact to her brothers so she should be good at talking to boys. But. Her brothers were never boys, not really. They came out of the womb as men. So. She isn't really used to boys. Or girls. "Oh no. I mean. I'm Camp. Camp Boot. That's my name."  
  
  
"Oh... How very- creative -of your parents." Natasha cracks a smile. Or what she thinks is a smile. She's been taught to look very sad at court. Always helps to shorten the sentences.  
  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
  
"I mean... your parents. They must have been in good humour when they gave you your name."  
  
  
He shakes his head. "I don't get it."  
  
  
Natasha sighs inaudibly. And she thought she was the one struggling with the English language. She is not sure whether she should feel relieved, because no one seems to think she's weird or whether she should fear for the following days seeing as... well she might actually just be the only one who isn't weird.  
  
  
The mood has been better when there was silence.

 

 

Suddenly the door slides open. Natasha turns and her eyes land on a girl with red hair (though not the very rare Weasley red; no really, their generation didn't completely go ginger; seems that brown is a rather dominant hair colour or even blonde). Behind the girl stands a tall, skinny boy with a thin face, knobbly knees, black perpetually messy hair, and clouded grey eyes hidden behind round glasses. Their ties reveal them to not be in the first year, nor the same house. The boy is a Gryffindor, the girl a Slytherin. But nowadays those distinctions don't matter like they did in the past. At least that's what the school would like parents to think.  
  
  
"YOU!" The girl points at the brown haired girl sitting next to the platinum blonde without even introducing herself. Rude. "Who are you?"  
  
  
"Holly. Holly Wood." You have to be kidding me. What is wrong with all their parents? -she knows what is wrong with hers... but she pegged herself as one of some unlucky few... maybe she does have to reconsider the thought...  
  
  
"Connected to Oliver Wood?"  
  
  
"He's my fa-"  
  
  
"Shush." The girl puts a finger to Holly Wood's (but seriously. Hollywood?) lips, shakes her red head. "I needn't hear no more."  
  
  
She looks at the little girl taking notes. "Kimmkorn. If I were you I wouldn't have this feather put down anything stupid, understood?"  
  
  
She doesn't wait for confirmation. "And who's this?"  
  
  
It takes a moment for Natasha to grasp that she is the one of interest. "Uhm. No hard feelings, but I don't even know who you are."  
  
  
"Oh. That's sweet. Isn't it, Emmett?" The boy nods way tooooo enthusiastically. It's not that big of a deal, really. She straightens her back, lifts her nose and - is she raising onto her tippy toes...? "I am Lily Potter, second of her name, but the first of her destiny. I am of House Slytherin and I'm here to find new underl- friends to join my course."  
  
  
"Natasha Krum, first of my name I guess, no house yet and no course", Natasha reports. Simply because she thinks it's hilarious.  
  
  
"Oh. So you're Victor Krum's daughter?"  
  
  
Natasha shrugs. "Guilty." In an afterthought she adds: "Of being his daughter, that is. I'm not- I mean- my family's not..." She's been taught to play innocent better than this, but somehow Lily Potter, second of her name, but first of her destiny, makes her nervous.  
  
  
Lily takes her hand. "Natasha. I believe we are going to be great friends."

  
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Birch Wood is on a mission. A mission to seek. A mission to find.  
  
  
"Excuse me, have you seen my friend, Ronja?"  
  
  
He asks some of the students in the train corridors. A girl that seems to be in a hurry to get some place out of view, smelling slightly like cigarettes; a boy looking demeaning as he's polishing a silver symbol that identifies him as prefect.  
  
  
As always Birch's either ignored or told that no, no why would I have seen her? And who would that even be?  
  
  
Ronja and him are what one might call ordinary, unremarkable and unimportant. Averageness is not something his family names stand for, but it's what describes the two of them the best. Ah, but do not misunderstand. They like to be average. Well he does. He guesses she does, too. He would ask her If he could. But he can't. Because she's missing.  
Yes, Ronja is missing and he has no choice but to walk through the entire train and ask If somebody, anybody has seen her.  
  
  
There is one cabin with closed curtains on the small door window. Smoke is crawling out of the small gaps between door and cabinwalls. He stops. Reconsiders. He might ask here, he will ask here.  
  
  
Birch opens the door and sees - fog. Smoke. Whatever you call it. Anyway it's clouding his vision.  
  
  
"Uhm... Hello?"  
  
  
The smoke clears only a little, yet enough for him to see a girl sporting a naturally red naturally curled afro (he guesses, he doesn't know a lot - for example he has no idea where to fnd Ronja - but he's pretty good at guessing) staring at him through brown eyes. "Dude", she says and her nose ring fits perfectly with her slowed speech. "Not cool."  
The boy next to her, who's of a similar complexion, only his hair is a bit darker than hers and his tanned skin is sporting way more freckles than hers (a guess, again, there's no way Birch will count their freckles), nods. "Not cool", he agrees.  
  
  
"I'm sorry", Birch apologizes. His father would laugh at him If he knew. Real robbers don't apologize. But Birch doesn't want to be a robber. And neither does Ronja. "I was just looking for my friend."  
  
  
"I don't think that's one of us... Like... you look so young", the girl says, shaking her head very slowly.  
"You can't be older than... 12", another girl with long read hair that's in dreads agrees. Birch suddenly feels caved in in this cabin by the company although he's still standing by the doorway. Good to go, so to say.  
  
  
"I'm in my second year", he tells them with determination. He's got to find Ronja, after all. "And I'm looking for my friend. Ronja. Did you see her?"  
"I don't know, kiddo. I don't know", the boy says. His hair looks weirdly cut and long as if he'd straightened it. Maybe he has. Birch can only guess. "Did we?"  
"No", dread girl says, "I would remember seeing someone so - tiny." She giggles.  
  
  
Next to her, the other boy, who was hidden by smoke before, squeezes her shoulder. "I'm with Ellie."  
  
  
"And I'm with you, dumbo", afro girl says.  
  
  
The boy with the weird straightened hair shrugs. "I'm sorry, dude. We haven't seen her."  
  
  
"O-okay." Birch nods. "Thanks anyway."  
  
  
He turns to leave, but dread girl - Ellie - grabs him by the wrist. "Wait!"  
  
  
He turns around. Has she seen Ronja after all? It's the moment of truth.  
  
  
"I need to ask you something", Ellie says, suddenly dead serious. "What do you think of the speaking hat puking slugs during the sorting? Hypothetically speaking, of course."  
  
  
"Well that would be... unusual?"  
  
  
"Oh. All right. So that is your answer...", she responds, somewhat down-beat before showing him out and slamming the door.  
  
  
"Unusual. Synonymous for lame", he hears one of the four mutter silently before the doors close. Birch doesn't know whether that's true. He can only guess.

But he has no time to ponder on the matter. He still hasn't found Ronja.  
  
  
So Birch continues on his way. Just some steps away there is another cabin. Its curtains are closed, too. Does nobody care for company anymore? Apparently. Something inside of the cabin makes a small noise, but there isn't any other sign that it is occupied. There's a silent giggle, a girl or a boy, he can't tell. Then someone speaks inside. Birch only hears some words. "Lu... you're so..." Another giggle. "...funny...Al..." "haven't..." Whatever the people inside are discussing, he can't guess. There's not enough to hear.  
  
  
Birch knocks on the door. Suddenly it seems that every sound emerging from the inside of the cabin comes to a halt.  
  
  
When he tries to open the door, it's locked. There aren't even any locks. It must be charmed. Maybe teachers...?  
  
  
He knocks again. Still no answer.  
  
  
Birch guesses he won't find his Ronja inside this cabin. And whoever is inside doesn't want to talk with him, clearly.  
  
  
So he leaves Lu, Al and whoever else...  
  
  
...to look for the next cabin.

This one is open.  
  
  
"Oh hi." The girl, commonly known as Daisy, smiles and gives him a wave. They're in the same year. Only, Birch is in Gryffindor and Daisy is a Hufflepuff. So they're not really friends.  
  
  
They're not really friends, but they're the same age. Definitely more approachable than the gang of redheads he encountered earlier.  
  
  
"I'm looking for Ronja", he says. They might know her, after all.  
  
  
"Oh. Ronja." The girl next to Daisy, one of the Longbottoms, but he doesn't know her name, there are too many Longbottoms, nods wistfully.  
  
  
"Have you seen her?", he asks. Hope!  
  
  
She shakes her head. "Not today, I haven't. But I'd like to see her, really I do. She seems nice." Another nod, then she is back at her own task: staring out of the window. Despair...  
  
  
"I could ask the Tambletweeds to look for her, if you want."  
  
  
"The what?" He raises an eyebrow, sceptically.  
  
  
She, of course, takes it for a challenge. "Oh yes, I'll ask them. I'm sure they'll be able to help you - except of course..." Longbottom gets up, gets close... and sniffs? He is so confused that he doesn't quite register her going back to her seat and sitting down. "Nevermind, you're okay. They'll help you." And she's back staring out of the window.

"I wouldn't bother If I were you", Apple Wood puts in. She's one year older, but Birch knows her. Obviously. She's his sister. And she's sitting with his classmates. He's confused. How didn't he see her before?  
  
  
"Apple? What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be with your classmates?"  
  
  
His sister rolls her eyes at him, so much unlike his, and tosses her light hair, so much unlike his, behind her long neck, a lot like his, actually, but looks prettier on her. "I should be with my friends. They're my friends. Problem solved. And anyway, we're all from Hufflepuff."  
  
  
Birch takes a second look and indeed, their ties confirm Apple's reasoning. Yes. He never really cared about the house of his sister either. There are many important things in life. His sister is none of them. But... Ronja is.

"Here." Desiree Dolores, commonly known as Daisy, gives him a small piece of paper. Birch is confused. "Uh... thanks for the Tambletweeds, I guess...?"  
  
  
The girls all laugh at him. Like they do in his nightmares. Not exactly those girls, of course. He doesn't dream of his sister and her Hufflepuff housemates. He might in his next nightmare.  
  
  
"No, silly", his sister says. That happens a lot in his nightmares, come to think of it. His sister verbally abusing him, that is. "That's a piece of paper."  
"To catch the Tambletweeds?", Birch tries. He feels like he is missing something.  
  
  
Longbottom shakes her short hair. It doesn't look like Ronja's looks when she does it. Obviously. "You cannot possible catch Tambletweeds, nevermind with a piece of paper! Although they might be lightly enchanted by Daisy's rhyming abilities..." She smiles easily, sincerely. Not like his sister, who's always laughing at him, never with him.  
"It's a poem. From me to you", Daisy explains. "It shall help you with your quest."  
  
  
Birch smiles, uncertainly, but reads it anyway, because - really - he doesn't have much of a choice, does he?

What once I lost can it return,  
the light so full of love.  
To be together were we born,  
but it ends in a silent grave.  
I ought not to depair though  
wherever I shall be,  
we'll still be near, so  
I can always find the lost within me.

He does not feel enlighted? ...  
  
  
"...thanks? It... ah..." he looks at the two strange girls (he avoids looking at his sister), their eyes are full of hope, "I think it really, really helped me. Yes. That's why I'll have to go now and continue my search. I feel like... like I might find her now."  
  
  
Also the poem sadded him. He doesn't want to think of losing Ronja and cry infront of Apple. That would be terrifying.

  
|--||--||--||--||--||--||--||--||--||--||--||--||--||--||--||--||--||--||--||--||--|

 

"And thy soul shalt rise and thy ghost shalt stay as we stay with thee..."  
  
  
"Seriously, James, don't you think this is a bit over the top?" Vallie does not regret his choice of words. Someone should be the sane one here.  
  
  
"Dude. Show a little respect to my man, alright?" Hugo shakes his head in disbelief of his cousin. Just Vallie. Dear old Vallie.  
  
  
"I told you that I would join your little seance sect, however I think this is too much", Vallie repeats, calmly. He is calm. He always is. He's here, because he's calm, unlike others.  
  
  
Silas Goyle turns to James, or as he likes to be called JP, "Are you just gonna let him say that, JP?"  
  
  
"Twas not "over the top" nor twas ur "too much". Doom is nigh you ignorants...", says James and makes little airquotes with his fingers while repeating Vallies words.  
"James. I know how important this is to you. But nobody died."  
  
  
"NOT YET", James says, furious. He's slipping out of character, his voice is suddenly less gravy. There's a crack in his demanour.  
  
  
"Remind me again why we're keeping him with us?", Hugo wants to know. He's referring to Vallie, obviously. Probably. You never know with Hugo. Maybe his mother's genes are about to come through and he'll gain sanity and intelligence- on second thought, watching him devour a bee bread with bees that seem to still have their stings... maybe not. They are "friends".  
  
  
James breathes deeply through his nose, all attention lost on his disbelieving minion as he has to face his forgetting one. "How can you possibly forget the reason why I keepeth him? The reason why I've sungeth in the early moon and why I've wept at the cold stone, you can't, shan't forget-"  
  
  
"For Potter's sake, James. Dominique isn't dead", Vallie says, hoping to put an end to it. Their cousin was expelled last year for something James and she did. Nobody knows what they have done. It's a mystery without clues. However it caused for Dominique to be sent off to France to study at Beauxbatons. And for James to go absolutely bonkers. Well he was bonkers before. But now he is treading the borders of slight insanity versus self-delusion.  
  
  
"She saw you off at the train station. She's alive. You don't need to do all this vodoo for her."  
  
  
"You have been deceived I deem. But yonder you ought not have to be living to show your image to the unseeing ones."  
  
  
"I hate to admit it, but I really don't have a clue what you're saying, and I'm like, the smartest in the room." Noticing his mistake, immediately, he corrects. "Cabin. But really I'd be the smartest in any room with you."  
  
  
"You... fine. I guess it is worthless to try to save you from your blissfull ignorance." James crosses his arms and stares in a direction that he supposes is France, where Dominique is headed right now, but is really just the place where Hugo keeps his toad in his case. Together with his schoolbooks and his clothes. Yes, that might be dangerous for said toad. Get over it. Hugo will. Once he sees his friend is dead. Eventually. He will cry, maybe, but he'll get over it. He does that.  
  
  
"So you give up on lecturing us? Well thanks Merlin."  
  
  
There is something strange, a darkness shadowing James' face, not his "seer"-darkness, mind you, something far off, gone within a moment as if James feels someone seeing it and surpresses it.  
  
  
This is Vallie's reason to stay close. His reason to not just turn his back on James. And honestly at least one of the others might feel it, too.  
  
  
He is concerned. He has to keep an eye on James because he fears if he does not than there might come a time he regrets being unaware, or rather convincing himself to be so.  
  
  
Well. For the time being James' mood is bad.  
  
  
"Hey, how long has it been that you read me my cards? Death, the Wheel of Fortune and the Grimm? Wasn't it?"  
  
  
"Yah. You were dying a horrible death...", murmurs Silas.

His last reading had been so bad... James had him wear dozens of talismans and protection spells for two months. Not because he had been concerned, of course. But because he had seen it important to keep Silas alive as he had to be to fullfill some sort of "duty" in the future.  
  
  
James' look on divination is sometimes strange. On the one hand he claims that there is always only one future and that every divination would turn true. On the other hand there are times he says the future can be changed.  
  
  
"Divination twas always fickle", as he says.

"Ho? Thou wantest me to gift you a look on thee nighest paths? Well. I admit I had been hurt by your ignorance. Thou who am I, a seer for those who seek my aid, to refuse you your future?"  
  
  
Fickle indeed. And James bad mood is obviously gone again. Replaced by his strangeness and words that might not even make sense to most.  
  
  
"Rejoice and despair, for I will tell thou...", says James and readies his cards. Which he had on him like always. He never seperated from them (he even took them with him when he went for the showers, hence their remarkably bad conditon (they are his fifth set, given to him on his birthday by all of his friends (which weren't many to count, the more remarkable the thought that they put it together, real cards were costly), his birthday in August, yes, August 22nd and today is - oh yes. September 1st).  
  
  
Vallie sighs. He will die another horrible death, certainly.  
  
  
"Ay, wanderer, thou doest right to ask me for thy destine", James says, then slumps in his chair, "But woe! Woe! I haveth not lost me power, yet I feel the loss of my companion, my friend, my-"  
  
  
"I think that's what she sees in you, James", Vallie confirms dryly. Why is he doing this again? Oh, right. Mr. Potter-you-can-call-me-Harry-I'm-not-that-old paid him. Paid him to make sure his son doesn't go crazy. All the while telling him that of course there was nothing like that to fear as there was no possibility that any of Harry's children might fall into such a state. For all his "glory" and the many pages in the history-books (yes, Mr. Potter was already part of the History of Magic lessons) the man was a tad bit different from what one might expect. He had feared for his sanity, too. For a moment.  
  
  
"A good friend." Maybe rubbing the whole friendzone thing in won't ensure James' sanity. But it might. Who knows, maybe he's suffering heartache, because Dominique never quite felt the same for him as he did for her. On the other hand he is not sure on that. Meaning he has no idea what James actually sees in her or in the image of her, that he has created that is. Because James doesn't speak about his own destiny. Ever. He claims it's some secret seer code. Vallie is smart, though. He knows such a thing doesn't exist.  
"Well, it is nigh...", begins James anew and stops. He is interrupted by the sound of their door opening.  
  
  
  
A boy looks inside. He seems lost.  
  
  
"Excuse me..." he looks at them. At James and at his cards. Mildly disturbed. Right. James might look a tad bit bizarre to a stranger.  
  
  
"Can we help you?", he offers.  
  
  
The boy shakes his head slowly as he takes his eyes off of them.  
  
  
"Ah!", says James, "I havet known that thou would come, seeking one! Have courage for I saw, I see the one thou missed in your deep grieve... I have been in despair and mourning, too, for my dearest one... understand the loss. Do not be afraid for I shall find the one you have lost."  
  
  
Birch swallows. Maybe he should go. Ronja might turn up. Eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure a train is more romantic, in a way- at least, that's what they say in the advertisments -and it allows for impromptu Dementor appearances. I guess.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two kudos = two chapters

Sorting. The one thing Rosé Weasley despises about school.

Don't get that wrong. It's not like she loves everything else about school. She doesn't. She dislikes the pranks people (among them, sadly, people related to her) disturb class with. She dislikes the broom riding lessons (seriously, who needs seven years of school to learn how to ride a broom? Rosé had it down in ten minutes. 9 3/4, actually.). She dislikes the incompetent staff (there is a lack of refresher courses because, yes, knowledge grows (despite her brother and the like)).

But sorting? Sorting she despises.  
Not because it's unneccessary (it shouldn't be). Not because it reinforces old prejudice (it comes naturally with pride, after all).

Rosé despises sorting, because it's a lie. She was delighted to join Ravenclaw, finally proving that yes, she is smarter than her mother, who only made it into Gryffindor (after all, Rosé's father went to Gryffindor and that really says something about their IQ standards). Hopeful to finally learn with people her equal (well, or only just slightly below her rather than light-years away). Beaming at the prospect of finally having someone to listen to her talk on Bioethics and mermaids.

11\. That was how old Rosé was when she stopped believing in sorting. Not because she wanted to, but because she couldn't deny it being a lie any longer.  
The people at Ravenclaw were nothing like Rose. Not intelligence wise. Not at all.  
Admittedly, her friend group consists of Ravenclaw only. But that's because there's nothing better. Ravenclaw isn't the smart house of Hogwarts. Rosé is. Well. The smart girl.

So here she is. One in a million, make that a billion, suffering in stupidity and the voices of hundreds of students whispering, talking, singing (yes, this is normal, especially for Calvin O'Connor who deems himself some sort of male wizard idol and might just be qualified to start a band with her brother in the name of culture destroyance), screaming and laughing. They fill the Great Hall (hail the creative name) with nonsense and insignificance Her life in a nutshell.

Of course all go quiet (or quiet enough that the teacher can pretend they're actually paying any attention; sweet oblivion open your arms) when the headmistress stands and announces the sorting.

The terrified and excited new students enter the hall. Siblings and friends among the older students seek the eyes of those who they might care (or be forced to give a damn) about. Telling them to join them in their houses (or: in Rosé's case when anyone from her family gets sorted, not get in her house). Hence the terrified first classes are now (not literally, just metaphorically, you know - Rosé knows, obviously) wetting their pants, those who already did before have the eyes of man/children sentenced to death. It is not allowed to influence the sorting or to be angry on anyone for their result.

Most of them are sorted by their family name anyway. The hat might pretend to be able to read their thoughts, intentions and stuff, but let's be real: How do 80 new students, all of different families (well, except for hers, maybe), history, intention get to fit perfectly into the 20 spaces each of the house offers? And how is it that the whole English Wizard community brings forth 40 witches and 40 wizards each year? Okay, the second part is easy. If there's too many the child dies before going to Hogwarts. If there's too little a muggleborn gets in. Easy. However, Rosé will not believe that each year those 80 students fit perfectly with the spaces offered. Ravenclaw proves it's just not real. 

The hat has the numbers. Then he spins a wheel. Rosé could be in Hufflepuff and would still be the smartest witch in the whole school, including her teachers (not that a lot of them would be female).

So. A ceremony full of hypocrisy and a torture to those unable to stand the pressure of being new and being presented like some sort of animal in front of the whole school. 

Did you never want to tell anyone your full name as that is fuel for nightmares?  
Congratulations. You'll get the possibility now! Because you have no choice. And, yes, all of your future classmates are entitled to make fun of you starting the moment you are called and forced to walk up to an old stool that might just collapse one day under one of the overweight among the youngest. If you do anything wrong, if you look strange, ugly, different, if you show any weakness, they'll all witness it.

Not that Rosé minds. She couldn't care less about the weak-minded bullying each other. Those kind of things never concern her. She is simply disappointed of their school system. But well. At least she has stopped having any delusions. And expectations.

The headmistress (yes, a woman, one good thing in this school) takes out the old hat, which might have been less incompetent if he had not been created by Godric Gryffindor. Or not. For some time she thought that the founder of her own house, intelligent Rowena, might have been a genius, but as life tends to disappoint, she stopped hoping. Who knows how mighty (and real) their founders actually were. She wouldn't deny a certain intelligence and ability in the foundation of her school, but she is not convinced that the few and spare facts (hero tales) are true, word by word. Because there is a great lack of actual proof. And also: If their founders were as they are told, they would have foreseen children like her brother and might have prevented... well. Or maybe they did but what would that say about them...

"After the hat sings his song, the sorting will commence."  
Oh no, seriously, this again? Rosé had forgotten about it- no, scratch that, more like pushed that to the back of her mind. Hugo, of course, is beaming brightly. She's sure he'll sing along.  
He does. Calvin O'Connor (aforementioned) makes a face. He does not join. Oh, well guess they won't be together in a boy band of horror soon. There are small mercies.

"I've done this job for centuries  
On every student's head I've sat"  
Oh, thanks, Rosé didn't need to be reminded of that. Thank Merlin she did not have to wear the hat for long. And she'll never have to again.

"Of thoughts I take inventories  
For I'm the famous Sorting Hat."  
And full of modesty. Apparently being worn by Gryffindor (as far as the hat says himself) once makes you a treasure all had to be overly thankful to look at. Or wear.

I've sorted high," Talking about Rosé. Obviously. Or about Emmett. That guy is tall.  
"I've sorted low," Well. That one could pretty much include almost everyone around.  
"I've done the job through thick and thin" Yeah, but what does the chair has to say on that matter?  
"So put me on and you will know  
Which house you should be in... "

Like not want. Should. Really there has to be some sort of list. The hat might just take a whole year to create his song and to learn all future Gryffindors, Slytherins, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs by heart.

Doesn't really matter who is sorted where. You might be careful with some of those traditional Slytherin and Gryffindor families (not that there were traditional Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs, in the eyes of many hardly any other house really matters) because politics. But in any other case... if you stretch the "qualities" of one of the houses long enough almost anyone could be in it.

That's how her house happened.

Finally the songs ends, the hat bows (awkwardly) and all those who either thought his words some sort of divine art or couldn't care less but would always follow just about anything somebody else does or just think it etiquette to applaud whenever someone "important" shared some of his thoughts clap their hands.  
Meaning Rosé is sitting among a huge group of monkeys (monkeys do as monkeys do) cheering for hundreds of years of conservative unquestioned tradition. She can easily compare her father coming back from the intelligence of the Stone Ages, he might have some Neanderthal genes (hopefully he doesn't, she would have them too!), to her schoolmates. It would make her sad if she wasn't used to it by now.

The headmistress takes out a scroll filled with the names of potential in the eyes of the optimistic, with further expected disappointment in the eyes of Rosé. It had been tradition in the past that the head of school stayed at the table of the teachers and their vice or one of the heads of the houses took upon the task of calling out the names. But these days the head of the school prefers to do things on her own. Which might be an improvement in the eyes of some but is actually most likely the same.

"Curle, Xavier." That's the first name the headmistress calls out. No A's and B's this year. Rosé knows where he will go. Poor Xavier doesn't stand a chance. The first one always goes to Hufflepuff. "Hey! Dipshit!", she calls out to the table of the house without an official purpose besides being everything that's left after Gryffindor, Slytherin and Ravenclaw. Normally something like slang language would be below her, obviously. But her brother won't react unless she uses it. He turns around, raising a brow. "What?" "Wanna bet where he goes to?" Hugo's face lights up. He loves bets, although he always loses. Rosé, obviously, doesn't understand why he keeps betting. She's not in it to lift Hugo's spirits, though. She's in it for the money. "I bet you 10 galleons that he's going to Hufflepuff." "Deal! Looks like Gryffindor to me. And I even bet 15 galleons." Boys and their stupid superiority complexes. More for her, though, so that's good.

Hugo watches, pressing his thumbs, as the hat contemplates. "Mh. You're brave... but also sometimes sly... and smart... mh... HUFFLEPUFF!"

It's like the hat is just telling anything as long as it has some of the qualities of the houses within. And while Xavier might have the qualities of both Gryffindor, Slytherin and Ravenclaw he'll still be a Hufflepuff, not unlikely lacking every Hufflepuff-quality besides wearing yellow and being the first student. It's kind of remarkable though that there are no A and B- names in this year. Usually there is at least one Adams or Brown. Because apparently those are the names seen first and most when contemplating on muggleborn first classes that might be permitted to visit a school of wizardry. And enter the world of wizards and witches. By the way: Rosé has got nothing against muggleborns, because there is no difference from where she stands between her schoolmates, wizard family or not, it's like looking at tiny insects from above: they are all the same. Meaningless in their banality. Well, her brother might have a "rank" of his own beneath all the others. So he's not an insect but a protozoan (Rosé apologizes silently to all protozoans because they do not deserve being compared to him).

"Dammit."  
"That's not who's going next, Hugo." Rosé rolls her eyes. She doesn't do it always with Hugo. But sometimes she has to. Just to remind him that If it weren't so tiresome, she would.

No, next is "Dwerryhouse, Aidan", who goes straight through to Slytherin. Then "Hughes, Ellery", Gryffindor and "Gallagher, Rhysa", Ravenclaw. None of that comes as a surprise to Rosé. The first four are sorted on all four houses, so that the focus shifts from "who are we going to get..." to "we got...". Which, obviously, is a way to distract them from the charade up front. And for Rosé, it's an easy way to raise her pocket money. The more her brother loses the more he bets. She might have to look out later on for him not ever making wages daily with people that are not her.

Next up is "Gulley-Ramsey, Clara" and Rosé feels bad for the girl. Not because she's going to Slytherin, Rosé knows houses don't matter, but because of that name. Seriously. What were her parents thinking? She always despised her own parents (which means her father because her mother never bothered naming her children, giving her husband every right to do so own, which never fails to result in failure) for being named after brands of alcohol, but Gulley-Ramsey could make her own case seem minimal.  
There's another Gryffindor and then Harper Humphrey. Or Humphrey Harper? HH might be the best way to settle the problem, so she'll go with that. HH reminds Rosé of her little sibling, Whiskee, in a way. Much like Whiskee HH wears long hair, lightly touching the shoulders. HH's eyes are graced by long lashes, HH's cheekbones high. There's no way Rosé could tell whether Harper or Humphrey is HH's first name. There's also no way Rosè could tell whether HH is a boy or a girl. Not that it matters. This binary division is beneath Rosé anyway. "Ravenclaw", the hat says. Rosé isn't impressed, but not bothered neither. At least she might find out more about this... person now.  
More and more are called up front. Blabla. Gryffindor. Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw. Slytherin. Blablabla. Again: It doesn't really matter, anyway.

 

"Krum, Natasha",announces the scary woman, gryffindoresk torturer, her, their, headmistress. As Natasha climbs the steps to humiliation - well, actually just takes the five steps between her and the stool - she sees many things at the same time. It's kind of like the short movie of your unimpressive boring life supposedly playing the last time you enjoy a movie, shortly before your death. If there is such a retelling. Natasha doubts that notion. And if there was something like that she would mostly see her family anyway. Isolated, overprotective childhood and overbearing family equals homeschooling, close to none human contact with other children and, in her case, far too much contact with persistent Aurors and judges. Who loved her, obviously, because there never was any witness as nice, kind and beautiful [her mother said so] as her.  
What she sees is this:

1\. the scary Slytherin-girl, child of Harry Potter as she now knows, giving her a glare. stare. Something. It might not meant to be mean. But it's hard to think of her as nice.  
2\. a dumb-looking Hufflepuff with red hair, who stares. Glares? No, most certainly stares. She remembers him being her... other family-something. Her mother's family is a big one, she's made to believe. Not that she knows most of her cousins, aunts, uncles or even her grand-parents. She has seen some of them once or twice. Most of them? - never.  
3\. another red-head, one of four, winking. For some reason her instincts are screaming trouble. And she has the urge to prepare her best face of innocence. Oh, those are members of her long-distance-family, too, no doubt. She's glad that they most likely never met any of her brothers.  
4\. upon approaching the hat on the stool there seems to be something off. Some sort of change.

She knows this situation. Making lists in her head. Being nervous, reflective. Seeing far too much without comprehending all the connections. And she prepares for the worst.

The last time this happened her brother Andrej had been seconds away from being caught by two Aurors for theft and forgery. If you ask her, Andrej is upright, through and through. He's interested in wizard art, which is why he likes to steal and copy it. He likes cute animals, whom he never dares to approach since the time when he cuddled a bunny and squeezed him too much...

He looks a little bit like a bad evil villain henchman out of a 70s Mafia-movie (like... all of her brothers). May be that he's a tad bit stupid (that one time they weren't able to try for an alibi, because there had been more than a dozen eyewitnesses and he forgot about being careful. He had been too absorbed in honoring the beauty of one artwork). But really: he's a softie. Well. That's what she's trying to believe and what's she's trying to convince the people at the Ministery of. He's only on "family vacation" for one and a half year this time. And the "artworks" he forged looked better than the originals, so there's that.  
One of the owners of several stolen artworks even did his best to buy her brother's works from the Aurors. He got them, of course, because there are many Aurors who wouldn't turn their backs on some extra money. Although nobody would ever dare to accuse any Auror of such a thing. If her brother hadn't been born part of their family and cursed by their family-history of criminality then he might have been quite a genius in the world of Wizard Art.

So yes: She is prepared. Something is going on and she knows. But unfortunately she does not know what it is that makes her wary.

 

He's sitting in the old chair (ugly but comfortable, nothing worthy of his name but certainly a salvation since the birth of his children) and tries to ignore the small ugly owl that jumps up and down before him, eager to deliver another letter. His daughter has been diligent, keen on reminding him of being a father even after he left his children for one whole blissfull year of a distance of many miles between them.

How much time has passed since their departure? Hours? Minutes? He'd rather like her to use her time to try to become a better daughter. So either no daughter at all (mastering absolute disappearance - without a trace, that, frankly, he wouldn't bother tracing anyway) or the dream single-child of pureblood families (not including the likes of Weasley, there has to be an exception to the rule, always). Instead she's all but spamming him with endless, meaningless musings, words of love and "I miss you"s.  
How. How did he ever fathered her? And yes. There is no doubt, sadly, that she is his daughter. His wife, who might be somewhere in the house, he recalls, not that it matters, is neither intelligent enough to cheat on him in secret nor is she of enough interest to anyone to even try to cheat on him openly. Oh. And she "loves" him. Meaning she is always faithful. Had he known some of things he knows now he had looked further into the market of pure blooded wizard ladies beneath the age of 25 when he did. He wouldn't have stopped at Hogsmeade Village, anyway. Or he might have not gotten married at all. Even though it is his duty as only son and heir to his noble house (or what remains of it), nothing can justify what he has now.

The ghost of his great-great-great (you get the picture) uncle, another blessing in his life, appears under his feet, goes right through his legs and makes him shiver. He hasn't seen him for quite a while. He had his hopes up that the old man would have finally disappeared. For some reason his ancestor has decided to continue to haunt him instead, obviously. Can he try for a divorce from his whole family? Long dead people included?

"You wallowing in self-pity again, stupid nephew? Your worthless children are gone now, aren't they? Shame of my blood, all of you. In my days something like you and your family would never have happened. Remind me, we Malfoys were always able to be proud of our name and history. And what is left of us?"

He sends him a disdainful look. Even if he does agree with that man's opinion on his children he's not very keen on listening to his useless blabbering on better times. Sharing one single opinion doesn't mean you have to like each other, right? What a world that would be... one where even Gryffindors could go along with Slytherins, because no sane person could come to like Filch for example. The day the former housekeeper died no one cried for sure. Actually he doesn't know whether he's dead. He's never asked one of his spawns whether they still had him at Hogwarts. Doesn't matter, does it now?  
His great-great... his uncle begins to prepare for a longer rant and pulls him back from his thoughts into the far harsher reality. Then the ghost sees the letters. "Oh. Aren't those from your daughter?" His demeanor changes. For some insane reason there is but one person in his house who actually appreciates his daughter's "poetry". The ghost still sees her as a failure, but he likes to torment him and every other unfortunate person nearby by reading out loud the "elegant words and thoughts" written by Desiree Dolores, who prefers to go by her artist name Daisy. He has asked himself many times how one of his ancestors could come to like the things his daughter writes. Being a ghost for so long you're bound to be mentally disturbed. But he must have been so even before his death. As of yet he has not found any other possible reason.  
Something isn't right with his family.  
"Let's have a look, shall we?"  
He raises his hand, waving it like you would do to shy a fly away. "As If I could stop you." Only muggles would believe that you could shoo away ghosts by kindly asking them to leave. He might actually look into exorcism. Of course, there's never been any real proof of banned ghosts, but he is willing to try, any time now. He fears that might still be pointless.

Uncle what's-his-name clears his throat in a rather dramatic fashion, before he raises his voice to torture the only one that still knows what blood means. Used to mean.

_  
_

"Whatever's in the words 'I miss'?  
Is it an 'm', is it a hiss?  
A long forgotten given kiss?

Or is it much a sweeter sound  
violets, daisies round and round,  
narcissuses, roses, an eternal bound?

A bitter longing, one has to go.  
Feets crushing the tender snow,  
like flapping of the wing'a'doe?

Like heart on heart and chest to chest,  
when we in sweet embrace do rest.  
I love thee most, I love thee best.

Or is it, may it ever be,  
the kindest view there is to see  
just me and you for you and me."

The poem receives the only response it should receive. Silence. Oh if only most could receive what they ought to receive. And if they already do, then who the hell thought anything he did, does or will do in his past, present or future could bring the later two.  
He frowns, touches the bridge of his nose. What has become of his plans, his ambitions? Poems about two words, that's what.  
His uncle, in return laughs. A booming laughter and so long it could only be produced by the undead lungs of a ghost as a person alive would long have fainted. He's blessed, isn't he? Why can't he sick him on one of the children?  
"Is that all?"  
"Actually, it isn't. She attached two more. And a sonnet cycle."  
"Dear lord."

 

"This is laaaaaame." Fee raises an eyebrow and slowly - careful with that when you're running on your dad's magic, literally magic, supply - turns her head towards the voice. "Wha?"  
"Lame", her brother, Gus, repeats. Yeah, well boredom's never been much fun.  
"Dude", their joined cousin, Flo holds his glass up for a toast. Good thinking on his side. There's always time for a toast. She takes her cup, juice, school's boring like that, and raises it, as does their cousin Elle. It's hard to tell, though, her long hair gets in the way. They clink them together as they do. The other kids are staring, probably jealous of them having juice already. That's what you get for playing tricks on the milk man that keeps messing the cook's order up. They have all the right friends in all the right places.  
"So. Do you guys think we should, like, pull it off?" Elle's eyebrow is raised, much like Fee's, so Fee drops hers. Yes. She kept it up all that time. You never know when keeping one face expression might come in handy. Like when the angry teacher with a new haircut (level up anyway) enters the class room and tries to see if you are looking guilty. Of course everyone knows that Fee has been the one who died his hair blue and gave him some dreads, but did she ever change her face from boredom to any other expression? Nah-uh, she didn't.  
"Whatcha talkin about, sis?" Flo really should cut back on the green candy, makes him forget stuff. Although it's better than the red candy. Him confusing their teacher with a cat and scratch her behind the ear? Actually quite funny at that time (hilarious!) , but their teacher is far too much of a philistine.  
"Like, the hat thing, you know? Should we, like, do it?" She's taken her hand to pull some hair back from her face. Wow. Did her eyes always used to be blue? Sometimes they seem to change very fast. God, what they would do to be metamorphmagi. Changing your appearance on will is so cool. All the pranks one could play.  
Flo and Gus look at each other, eyes alight. They're best friends. Sometimes Fee almost feels like it is unfair, because Elle and her never quite got as close to their brothers as their brothers got to each other. But whatever, huh?  
"Well, we might free those newcomers from this... And it would be great, wouldn't it? Whatcha thinking how many new pages on us would that make?" They're kind of trying to break their parents record. Kicking themselves out of school? Legendary.  
"Duuuuuude."  
"Are you thinking, what I'm thinking??"  
"We should totally do the thing with the hat", they say. At the same time. Amazing.  
"I, like, totally suggested that like two minutes ago?" Elle's exaperation shows in the way she lets go of her hair, lets it fall all into her face.  
Fee rolls her eyes, obviously neither of her family members will get shit done If she doesn't start or encourages it. "C'mon guys, we better be quick. They're like at M already."  
"K. Actually."  
"Hey, isn't that like a cousin or something of ours?"  
"Not every red head is a Weasley."  
"You know what? It's gotta be her."

 

"Well, well, well another Weasley", the hat says, once placed atop of Natasha's head. This earns a few gasps from the crowd. Please. As If her hair color wouldn't give her away as it is.  
"Krum, actually", she corrects, coldly. Another round of gasps, this time coming mostly from other Weasleys. Everyone, actually. Except for Lily-from-the-train. She's smiling. It's kinda scary. A lot.  
The hat wobbles on top of her head and she wonders what it's made of. Whatever it is, it itches. Hopefully they'll be done with this soon. Bonus: she won't wear this beginner cloak and tie any longer that identify her as newbie. Ah. But now that they have all heard her name, they might just remember her anyway. Great."I will surely take my sweet time If it pleases me to do so, Miss Weasley-Krum", the hat says. Oh yeah. The mind reading. She forgot about that. oopsie.  
"Oh boy -"  
"Girl, actually", Natasha interrupts. "It's a girl name. It means Christmas." Gasps. Everywhere. A grin on Lily's face. Ca-reep...  
"Your family is quite... special as usual."  
"My family is lovely as it is, thank you for your inquiry, kind Sir." Okay. Now, here's the thing: Living between Ukraine, Slovaika and Russia (sometimes even the WHITE part) has been a bit harmful to her formal English. Because she never has had to speak any of it. Her brothers, for their part, never really learned English. And what Natasha will say in a situation like this, that is not covered by the slang her mother made sure to teach her so she'd 'get many friends' and 'boyfriends' at Hogwarts, is covered by what she read in the classics. Those are for free as e books, so what's left to say.  
"Ah, I've only wondered. Why, I've never had the pleasure to meet your brothers. Sad thing that. Now let's see you seem to be quite a know-i... intelligent girl. Yes, indeed. But not enough for Ravenclaw, I dare say. Mh...mh... you wouldn't mind going to Hufflepuff, would you, now? I haven't sorted many of them yet. Well I wouldn't want to put you into Gryffindor again, I have decided to stop selecting by family names some years ago. Now what about..."

But unfortunately, fortunately, Natasha will never hear his next words (she has been losing every single hope for her first year, seeing as even a hat wasn't even interested in herself nor in her own opinion. She felt right at home again. Her wish had been to finally have the possibility to make her own decisions and speak her own mind).  
The hat begins to gurgle. And yes, that is more of a creep than Lily Potter. Almost. Because a gurgling hat has his very unique sound. More so if you are wearing said hat.  
Then her hair touches an unknown, unexpected wetness. Some sort of slime. Oh my god. Is he dead? Wait. No. Wet living things are the ones which sudden wetness means death. There can be other explanations, but in her experience? Less likely. Can hats be dead? Is he, it?, a living thing?  
There is an outburst among the students before her and she feels something slipping from her head towards her face.

Now Natasha is anything but squeamish. Situations that make others scream are actually quite nice, because she knows exactly how to handle herself. Horrormovies are great, it's romcom that makes her want to disappear not the bloodied werewolf with an axe (and why the hell would a werewolf need an axe to kill people, he does have his teeth and claws, doesn't he? Honestly, a werewolf with an axe, ridiculous!).

Because she knows how to handle herself, she stays perfectly calm. Inwardly. To everyone else she gives her best show of innocent sweet little girl in a sudden possible dangerous, frightening or at least surprising situation. She screams, takes - tears - the hat from her head (her poor hair, there is something dropping out of the hat and she's sure: she'll have to shower twice or thrice to get rid of it) and makes a great fuss. She might actually try to look for a drama club, she could really use her actress talents there. Albeit she learned to act for the court she might be better off on a stage. Which she is, in a way, right now.

All the while part of her mind is busy doing actually useful stuff like analyzing her surroundings. She sees some panic, some laughter and some very hectic teachers. Great. As if her name had not been enough to make everyone remember her, now they, she turns towards the hat, identifying the source of the wetness, will know her as the girl who got her hair full of slugs, when she was putting on the old hat to get selected into her house.

Might be revenge for all the vineyard snails her mother tends to eat, when she's in her "french" mood. And yes, her mother does have moods for every single country and culture. But mostly it's first come, first served. So whatever cook is fortunate enough to catch her eyes gets the ridiculous amount of money she can spend on small single meals. Of course she's often inviting Natasha, too, sometimes they even have family dinners with most of her brothers. They never succeed to have a family meal with the whole family, even at the times they visited a prison restaurant. Apparently many think that there is only one wizard prison. Well they are all wrong. Thanks to her brothers Natasha knows at least six of them and an additional dozen of muggle prisons. The last ones conveniently tend to forget her brothers. The whole family is proud of her parents' Obliviate-spells.

Natasha takes a short look around. Lily seems actually innocent. Which is a strange look on her... But it doesn't seem like she's disturbed by the events. She just looks like a spectator who's mildly interested but actually couldn't really care less. Between her felt dozens of cousins she sees confusion, amusement and well she can't call it any other thing but dumbness, which might be rude, but the boy just doesn't seem very bright. There's one who could not have hoped for Ravenclaw.  
When she finds the group of four she remarked earlier, she knows for certain who she can thank for the mess. One of them sees her watching and winks. Did she just find some more allies in this school? Can't she just become friends with normal people and have a normal school life? In the stories of her mother school seemed easier.

 

The reactions among the staff are very... different. See: There's the dear headmistress, trying to get everyone to be quiet. She's also out for blood. The responsible students are doubtlessly better off never letting her confirm their involvement in the recent events. Well, most teachers know that it's the Weasleys, again. Like they couldn't have waited for one day. Professor Lovegood, who, sort of, sometimes, teaches divination together with the late Professor Trelawny and otherwise Astronomy together with the centaur Firence, stands out among her colleagues. The cause is neither her giant violet hat nor the buttercork-earrings or the necklace of tiny stones colored lovingly by her children, rather her absent-mind. While her husband, one Neville Longbottom namely, kind of panics and their common friend Professor Abbott (History of Magic as her predecessor hasn't been found yet, being a ghost didn't prevent Professor Binns from being trapped in a prank trap (Weasley TM)) stands up to try aiding the headmistress to calm the students.

So that's what he's survived for. Hours of careful planning, experimenting and stirring. Ingredients so rare, so hard to get, that dying would have cost him far less. He would actually be inconvenienced if he'd ever have to brew the antitoxin, that saved his life, again. Fortunately the creature which almost killed him is dead by now for some decades. He still regrets not collecting any potion materials from it. But at the time he had felt, for the lack of a better word, unfit to do so. Near death-experiences tended to make one irrational. He could have left. He could have disappeared or he could have gone to another state, another continent. Instead he stayed and had been given the punishment of returning to teach at Hogwarts. At first he thought it laughable that they actually made him, a murderer, albeit one with good reasons and with very important defenders (he'll forever regret feeling indebted to a Potter, even if said Potter had the eyes of a certain girl), a teacher again. But oh, he knows. Clearly there aren't many good teachers left. More so of his knowledge. Also he gets payed less, and the school can save money. And most of all: If they wanted to punish him: This is - to put it into the words of the infamous red headed prank quartett - like, the most efficient way.  
He gets up slowly. First thing he does is sending an angry look to Longbottom, the Professor, the boy, shrinks into himself. Good. He doesn't want to handle a nervous teacher on top of erratic students. Now that he has taken care of part one, he shifts his eyes to the pests in front of him. Some of them are even wearing green. Such a shame. Such unbecoming behavior.  
As soon as he catches the eyes of the fools, there is a shift in the atmosphere. Oh, he knows: They fear him. Rightfully so. They don't even have to consciously remark him. They feel his eyes.  
Among the chaos he snarls one single word: "Silence" He feels a deep warm satisfaction as they freeze immediately.

"How peculiar", Professor Lovegood utters as she approaches the hat - or Natasha? Or maybe she approaches one within her approach to approach the other. Anyway, approach she does. "How most peculiar."  
However intense her reinforcement of the notion that this event is unusual, this is not the explanation any of the student body hoped for after being stunned into silence. They watch, enchanted, as their Professor, probably the most peculiar in the lot herself, takes the hat out of the new girl's hands, Natasha's hands and looks at it. And looks at it. And looks at it... There might be no living being able to understand her.  
"Luna", Professor Longbottom says in a first name fashion that is typical for them. They're married after all with who knows how many children, most of whom he himself never regretted not meeting neither wished to have in his class. And they all have the fortune of having both their family names and additional "creative" personal names. "What is it?"  
She simply smiles, shakes her head. "They're really putting their father's to shame."  
Well the biggest shame still befalls him. Because he can't even try to remember how many years of his life he has been plagued by Weasleys.  
It's a secret, and of course he deems Professor Lovegood just as strange, ridiculous and unnerving as her husband and pretty much every other member of the staff, but he actually kind of likes her. At least right now, because her words in addition to his own are able to bring back order.  
What would he give to have the permission to properly punish all those students in a way to make them repent and regret and most of all never try all these stupid things unruly children tend to do again.

 

The four Weasleys are now, obviously, the talk of the castle.  
"I heard Fiona Weasley charmed it!"  
"It was Gustav and Giselle! They've been planning all summer, their father-"  
"Oh, Florian is ever so handsome! Did you see the grin on his face as they told them to stay in the great hall? That dimples though..."  
"The teachers are really getting more incompetent with each passing year. I mean: letting those ginger beasts charm the hat during the ceremony - one thing. But not being able to fix it within a minute? That's just embarrassing."  
"They're my friends, I know how they did it-"  
"Giselle can't have been in on it, I'd swear to that-"  
"They're my cousins! Yes! MY cousins."  
"Yes.. they're my cousins, thanks for reminding me..."  
It's all very strange for those first graders that are left in the hallway as the voices pass. Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff - all retreating to their respective common rooms to go over the events of the evening, slip out for a butterbeer, write an owl to the parents about their newly discovered house...  
Lucky bastards.  
"What about us?", asks one of the new students.  
After the interruption the young blonde teacher with the strange earrings took the hat away. The incident has "traumatized" him.  
"Is this hat seriously acting like a diva?", murmurs one of the students, who has the misfortune to have a family name beginning with T. Waiting for so long and not even getting to get their turn. Well he isn't the only one to be disappointed.  
Ramsey Payne, a boy who's name says almost everything about him, isn't going to buy into it. "This is outrageous", he exclaims in his pre-pubercent voice, which makes it even harder to take him serious, "My father will have a word with you."  
Natasha can only hope that she will not be sorted into a house with him. When she gets sorted. If she gets sorted.  
"We understand that this is upsetting", the headmistress says in a voice that is anything but understanding, "However we cannot commence the sorting ceremony without the hat."  
"I hope they at least will pay for this inconvenience", Ramsey replied crossly. Literally, with his arms crossed in front of his chest.  
Yeah. doubt that. Natasha knows how much much that might cost. It's called pain money, because it's a pain to pay. So people with the right connections won't pay it. And honestly: It would be over-top.  
"However unfortunate the outcome of the evening", the headmistress continues, unimpressed by a first grader trying to threaten her, "You are still wards of the castle for the time being, which means you will all get a bed set up in the great hall to sleep in while the teachers and I will charm the hat back to its previous state." She doesn't say that they could only do it once the four Weasleys reveal what exactly they have done. Which is very unlikely to happen very soon. Truth potions are not to be used on students any longer, after that disaster with, who else could it have been, that Weasley girl, Dominique...  
"The great hall? Girls and boys both!" Ramsey seems shocked. Natasha doesn't mind. Who would after occasionally sharing spaces under floors with 3+ brothers.  
"Professors Lovegood and Longbottom will look out for you", the headmistress adds, the first time she responds to the kid. "You don't need to worry. Nothing inappropriate is about to transpire. Except of course you plan on initiating it, Mr. Payne."  
"I'd never", he says. Shocked. Offended. Whatever. He's dull in regards of emotions. In Natasha's book that is.  
The little boy, whose name starts with T, raises his hand again, blushing slightly. Asking a teacher is clearly embarrassing in England. Most interesting. "What If we have to... go take a wee?" The last part is a mere whisper. Good god. This is gonna be a long night.

 

The Hufflepuff common room is pitch dark, safe for the candle in the middle of the table and the dying fire in the chimney. It is also silent, safe for the voice of one especially gifted Hufflepuff. A one in a million years or something like that. At least in his own book he is.  
"Woe, amest I told yer fools of these tragedies to come", he says, candle illuminating his face for dramatic effect.  
Somebody heaves a sigh. "Can we turn the lights back on, please?"  
"Yes", a girl supports, "I want to write a letter to my dad."  
"Regret you will the day you hindered advise from the master of divination..."  
"Please. Divination isn't science."  
Actually it might seem like a small miracle that they've all let him darken the common room. But there's nothing new about the "gifted" boy and his quirks. Every Hufflepuff, except for some tiny first years, knows James  
"Oh! Oh woe me. To be misunderstood and forgotten, but I've seen, I've seen and it has ever henceforth been my duty to try."  
"Try what? Being a lunatic?"  
"Hey, why are you arguing with him. Let him be, he won't shut up as long as you will give him more reason to talk."  
"Ah Luna... oh did ya hear great divine mother, oh Horatio they do me wrong."  
"You ain't Shakespeare.", yells one muggleborn student and adds, "Sadly so. If you were, you would be dead. And you might sound less like an idiot."  
"Shakes-who?"  
"Oh, shut up O'Connor. It's not as if you'd understand him if you knew him."  
"ENOUGH." It's their prefect in all of his glory. Wearing an overall and a small green hat, although he's a Hufflepuff so his colours are supposed to be yellow and black. Like a bee. "It is time we all went to our respective beds. School starts tomorrow and it will not wait up for your bickering." He's not anything like his parents, except for his questionable clothing choices maybe. And his braveness.  
"Can we keep our lights on, Finn?", Leslie Longbottom requests. She would stay up all night reading If she could.  
"For an hour", he admits. He could never deny her anything. His little sister.  
James shakes his head. "Alast, you know where to find me if your mind cleares enough to appreciate the truth..." Humble.

"It's weird, though, isn't it?", Leslie wonders trailing up the stairs beside her best friend.  
Daisy looks up from the lines of her newest poem. They're in need of some re-touching. "What?"  
"Of all the years they could have done it, all the people they could have done it on, they chose today. They chose Natasha. Their cousin", Leslie explains.  
"Oh that." Daisys thoughts were directed in a whole nother direction. Her father. He would probably be lonely. She had to send him another letter. Soon. Luckely she had brought enough parchment, And her sweet little buttercup, albeit a small owl, was very fast.  
"I just don't see why they would do it on her. Are they afraid she'll end up in Slytherin, or what?"  
"Daddy would be delighted had I ended up in Slytherin", Daisy interjects gently, "Although he doesn't mind that I didn't."  
"My parents wouldn't have cared, I guess." She nods, thinking it through. "I think Maelys could definitely become a Slytherin. Mathematically speaking it's highly unlikely that we all end up in Hufflepuff."  
"Do you think they will let us watch the rest of the ceremony tomorrow?" Although Daisy's happy that she's now a second grader - refined and knowing - she has a firm interest in all of her housemates, old and young.  
"Depends." Leslie just shrugs it off as she does with a lot of things. Haters, for example, who think it's funny to turn the Quibbler into paper snow. She just doesn't pay them any attention. And it seems to work just fine, too. "Maybe they want to try whether he's alright again without an audience."  
That sure sounds reasonable. "I'll ask Daddy." He will have an opinion even more refined than that of a second grader. Surely he will be delighted to share his knowledge with her. She hopes he won't be lonely. Well, he won't have to wait all to long to see her again. She's definitely going to surprise him and visit for Christmas this year. After all she already got an invitation from her mother.


End file.
